


The Madame

by BetweenScenes



Series: The Man I Am [2]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Second Wife - Freeform, book two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-07-01 09:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15771774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenScenes/pseuds/BetweenScenes
Summary: "The Madame" is a continuation from “Second Wife,” a novella exploring the untold time between Hellwater and Claire’s return.  At the end of Second Wife, Jamie has set off for Edinburgh, certain that he can no longer stay in the same place as Laoghaire, as much as he loves Joanie & Marsali.





	1. The Madame

> _Dear Laoghaire, Marsali, and Joanie,_
> 
> _The journey to Edinburgh was uneventful, though Gaoth did not feel that he was Required to Maintain a rapid Pace.  I believe we were Mistaken in naming him the Gaighlaig for wind, for the Beast does not live up to his Name._
> 
> _Fergus was Much Pleased to meet me at World’s End, a tavern where we Spoke much of the Adventures he has had in Seeking a business for us to Obtain._
> 
> _We are staying in a boarding house, run by a Motherly Woman who has Fussed over us much and set us up in Comfort and Safety.  Her name is Mistress Jean, though I have not yet learned her Surname. Though she is None so Excellent a cook as Yourself, Laoghaire, she fed us Well, and now I am taking this opportunity to Write to you._
> 
> _I am yours and miss you Deeply,_
> 
> _James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser (or just Da)_

    Madame Jeanne wended her way through the parlor, engaging in short conversations with the be-wigged customers, their faces flushed by spirits and sensuality.  Business would be good tonight, as among the men she saw several whose purse strings were easily loosed by beautiful girls and free-flowing wine.

    Fergus had said that tonight he would be bringing in a guest—that he would be introducing her to the man he frequently referred to as  _Milord_ , Monsieur Frasier.  _Mister Strawberry_ , she smiled in amusement to herself, though she well knew the Scots would have bastardized it to  _Fraser_. She took perverse delight in refusing to think of him as anything other than Monsieur Frasier.

    At Fergus’ mention of the Highlander who was his adoptive father, Mme. Jeanne had formed certain expectations.  She expected a rough, coarse, burly, muscular Scot with that heavy brogue she found nearly impossible to understand.  She wished she had the luxury of turning such men away from the brothel, and would have, if they didn’t provide such a large part of her income.  She had learned to look the other way, to mask her disgust and to shelter her more refined  _jeunne fille—_ particularly  _la Parisiennes—_ from those rougher customers, reserving their graces for the richer guests—the cultured, moneyed businessmen of Edinburgh. 

    As expected, Fergus arrived and ushered the gentleman inside precisely on time.  Her eyes widened at the sight of the Highlander extending to his full height after bending to enter the low door.  _Muscular_  Monsieur Frazielier was. However, from there on he far exceeded her low expectations. His hair was the dark red of mahogany wood, his skin tanned and his eyes a piercing blue, with arched eyebrows and a straight, strong nose. And he was tall. So tall, in fact, that the madame surreptitiously glanced at his feet. It was not odd in the course of her day to notice such things; a madame must make it her business to be extremely observant.  

    Her own brows arched higher at the sight of his sizeable footwear. Such a man would be much talked over by the girls.  As it was, he had already garnered the attention of many of the young women milling around the parlor who were unoccupied.  With a frown Mme. Jeanne noted that he had also distracted an inordinate quantity of the  _jeunne fille_  who were  _with_  clients.  A sharp clap of her hands, and the beauties turned their attention back to the mousy middle-aged men with whom they cuddled on couches or beds, beginning again to giggle and titter at the men’s inane attempts at clever conversation.

    “At last we meet, Monsieur,” she said, her voice musical. “Young Claudel has told me much of you.”

    “ _Claudel_ , is it?” Monsieur Frasier spoke, his eyes twinkling delightfully as he smiled. But then he took her proffered hand and brought it to his lips in a genteel gesture.

    “ _Enchante_ , Madame,” he said with a French accent that was nearly native. “May we speak in private?”

    Madame Jeanne’s voluminous silk skirts rustled as she gestured toward the entrance of her office. Though Mssr. Frasier stood back as if to allow her to go first, Mme Jeanne shook her head shortly.  She preferred to walk behind, where she could assess her possible business partners without them noticing her attentions.

    In particular, Mme. Jeanne noticed that Mssr. Frasier did not return the girls’ interest.  In fact, she barely saw him glance at the young ladies as they paraded by in various stages of undress, lowering their eyes in flirtation.

    Despite Mssr. Frasier’s lack of interest in the  _jeunne fille_ , she noticed that he did not look at she herself with scorn. Not like the clergy who would click their tongues at her in the street but quite happily slip in the back entrance to give her girls their patronage.  Such scorn was most likely an outward show meant to hide all manner of depraved licentiousness.

    For Madame, however, the behavior between these four walls was not considered licentiousness; it was  ** _business_**. Men had an appetite, and she provided the sustenance.

    She turned her attention back to her guests, who seemed less ill at ease once they had retreated to her richly ordained office and she had offered them each a glass of wine.  

    “ _Non_ , Madame,” Fergus said, gesturing toward the  _armoire_   _a vin_ behind her as she held the glass of wine toward Monsieur Frasier.  “He would prefer whisky if you have it,  _sil vou plait?”_

 _“Merci beaucoup_ ,” Mr. Fraser said with a lovely smile, accepting the cup of amber liquid gratefully.

    “Proceed,” he urged Fergus, turning to look at the young man with obvious affection.  Young Claudel had mentioned that Mssr Frasier was his adoptive father.  Though the two men looked nothing alike save for their blue eyes and curls, they obviously regarded each other with great favor.

    “Madame and I have at length discussed the mutual benefit of joining in business,” Fergus said, nodding first at her and then turning to him. “You and I need a place to store a quantity of spirits.  She  requires a maximum quantity of spirits at a minimum price.  The excise men already give you a wide berth, do they not, Madame Jeanne? They don’t care to be recognized and therefore are susceptible to blackmail. And you have already bribed them, on occasion, have you not?  For them to look the other way is not a new thing.”

    “ _Oui_ , of course, Messieurs,” she responded with a nod of her head. She turned to Mssr. Frasier. “Young Claudel—or Fergus, as you call him—has made me quite receptive to his plans.”  

    Monsieur Frasier looked at his son with raised eyebrows, and Fergus had the good grace to flush slightly. Mme. Jeanne noticed the exchange, seeing how the gentleman smiled imperceptibly as Fergus looked away, an unreservedly proud expression on his face.

    “How would our comings and goings impact your clientele?” Monsieur Frasier was asking. “We do not want to endanger you with our deliveries and departures.”

    “This house has a large basement, well able to hold much in the way of spirits.  We have easy access to the basement from this side of the house, but it can also be reached from the alley at the rear.  The house is loud at night when darkness would enable you to come and go freely, so any sounds of rolling barrels or men working would be covered by the laughter of my  _jeunne fille_ and their customers.”

    Monsieur Frasier leaned forward, peering at her with hawklike intensity.  “What fees will you require of us?  We must know if this arrangement will allow us to turn a profit.”

    She looked back and forth from one man to the other.  “Two large casks of wine each shipment, and one of brandy.  And as we are in Scotland, two—no, three—casks of whisky.”

    “And in exchange, we will receive?” Fergus prompted her.  They had spoken at length of what enticements would convince his adoptive father.

    “Primarily safety and anonymity…” she said seriously. “Distance from your legitimate business. You will gain my reputation, my knowledge of the city and the other establishments who will likely desire spirits.  And if you wish it, I have rooms available up on the highest level of the house,” Madame Jeanne said.  “I understand you may need accommodations while you search for another business.”

    “Aye,” said Monsieur Frasier.  “This is true.  But will we not be taking away from your profits by the use of the rooms?”

    “ _Non_ ,” she assured him.  “Few men, when they are into their cups, are able to travel so many flights of stairs without mishap.  I do not care to have to summon the doctors to bind up cracked skulls and bloodied noses. The garret rooms are not used often. But they will suit gentlemen such as yourselves.”

    “ _Milord_ ,” said Fergus, “I have already availed myself of a room, and they are quite comfortable, if the walls a bit…thin.”

    He flushed once more, though Mme. Jeanne knew it was not for himself so much as the desire for his father’s good opinion.  Claudel had shared a brief summary of his history of being raised in a brothel in France. He was nonplussed by the activity of the household.  In fact, she’d heard enthusiastic noises coming from  _his_  room at least thrice, and she’d had to remind her  _jeunne fille_ that though they were welcome to do as they wished on their evenings off, they must be certain they kept themselves unencumbered by emotions.  Claudel was a beautiful boy and a great favorite of the young ladies, who showered him with affection, competed for his attentions, and when he was absent gossiped and giggled over his beauty and his youthful enthusiasm abed.  

    The Monsieur still looked hesitant, so Madame thought to add one last enticement.

    “You will also be welcome to avail yourself of the company of any of my girls if you wish it,” she offered.

    At last there was an emotional response from Monsieur Frasier, who colored and narrowed his eyes at her. “I am  _marrit,_ Madame. I willna be needing their attentions.”

    She had the good grace to accept his indignant response without judgment.  “Many of my customers are married men, Milord,” she said, consciously choosing young Claudel’s title for him to calm him.  “Whose wives are far away, or devoted to their children, or not given to physical affection.  You are free to determine your own choices, but I would wish to make certain you do not chase my customers away with your scorn.”

    “Oh, I dinna care what other men do,” Msr. Frasier responded strongly. “I simply ken what  _I_  choose.”  

    They stood then.

    “Do we have an agreement?” she asked, reaching out her hand toward the ruddy-haired gentleman in oft-mended but well-tailored clothing.

    “Aye,” he said.  “But I have now one request.  Though Fergus introduced me as Fraser, I am going by another name.” He looked at Claudel with a meaningful raise of the eyebrows. “My name is Alexander Malcolm.”

    “Fine.  It is no matter to me.  And you will stay here tonight,” she stated. “You look weary from your journey.  Pauline will bring you repast in your rooms, and tomorrow you can continue your search for another business.”

    He reached into his jacket as if to bring out coins.

    “ _Bien sûr que non!”_  she exclaimed.  “There is no need for payment.”

    “There is,” he responded indignantly, “Until I have my first shipment, I must pay ye for my lodgings.”

    “Monsieur,” she said compassionately, drawing the name out.  “Consider this my investment in our partnership.  You must have liquid assets to be able to begin your business.  And as I’ve said, this arrangement will be  _mutually_  beneficial.”

    “Then it is decided,” Fergus said, stepping forward.  His face brightened with a wide smile as he and the Madame shared a conspiratory look of congratulations.  He then turned to Monsieur Frasier—ah, Monsieur  _Malcolm_. “ _Milord_ , come with me.  I will show you to our rooms.”

    As they left, the Madame followed them with her eyes.  She had become an astute judge of character through her years of running the brothel. She could tell when she needed to station one of her  _gendarmes_  outside a room, ready to enter at the first sign of trouble.  She could tell when one of her young ladies was approaching her courses, and without fail she always knew before the girls who accidentally fell pregnant.

    What she had noticed about Monsieur Malcolm was his response to her words.  She had listed the most common causes of men frequenting the brothel and at the mention of wives far away, consumed with mothering their children, or not being given to physical affection, she felt as if… as if his soul had shuddered.  She could see it in his eyes—a deep sadness and loss.

    She watched Monsieur Malcolm walk away.   _Here was a challenge_ , thought Madame Jeanne, a slight smile playing about her lips.

     And Madame Jeanne was a woman equal to a challenge.


	2. Le Monsieur

> _Dear Jenny and Ian,_
> 
> _You may have Heard by Gossip, which has a Way of traveling faster than Post, that I have left Balriggan and gone to Edinburgh._
> 
> _When last we Saw each other, Sister, I mentioned my Need for Income which will aid not only Myself, but Laoghaire and the Lassies at Balriggan and you at Lallybroch as well.  Fergus has Traveled ahead of me and is Exceedingly enthusiastic about our Prospects._
> 
> _You may recall, Janet, the Discussion we had by our Parents’ Graves. I truly gave it my best Effort, but Events transpired which caused me to Determine that I will have to be satisfied with only One Great love in my Life. Please give my Love to Joanie and Marsali, should you See them before Hogmanay, when I have Promised to return._
> 
> _Worry not for me.  I have found a Place to stay in safety.  I am to be called Alexander Malcolm here, so please do not address your Letters to James Fraser, as none will Know of a man with that Name._
> 
> _I remain yours fondly,_
> 
> _Alexander Malcolm_

     “Ye are certain, now, Fergus?” Jamie asked as they climbed the stairs to the garret rooms.  Several times as they strode past closed doors they had heard high-pitched squeals, rhythmic grunting, the squeak of bedsprings, or feminine laughter. “Do ye think we should board here with Madame Jeanne?”

     “Milord, even if you wish to keep your businesses separate, you must be able to separate yourself from either business at any time. If we must escape the excise men, how better than to have rooms here?  We will not have to weave through the streets of Edinburgh if we can simply retreat to our rooms.”

     Fergus colored briefly after one particularly loud squeal seemed to startle Jamie, but he persisted, leading the way further upward until they had reached two doors under the rafters.

     Fergus paused, reaching for Jamie’s hand and clasping it with his own. “You do not know, Milord, how glad I am to have you here,” he said with genuine joy. “Nor how excited I am to spend tomorrow showing you what I have discovered. But truly, Milord, you look weary.”

     He  _was_  weary, Jamie realized, as he entered the room. But he was even more hungry than he was weary.  In the lobby Madame Jeanne had given brusque instructions to an elderly woman called Pauline to bring them something to eat, and Jamie had determined that he would stay up long enough to fill his hollow stomach.  He hadn’t eaten since the meat pasty he’d bought in the streets on his way to meet Fergus.  The whisky at World’s End had staved off hunger for a time, but the effects had worn off. And after a long day of riding on just a breakfast of stale bannocks, the thought of anything fresh—even if it was cold—made Jamie’s mouth water unbidden.

     To distract himself, Jamie removed his tricorn and overcoat and hung them on the coat tree by the door. There was still some dust from his journey caked on the coat hems, but he didn’t want to dirty the room.  Better to wait until tomorrow to go outside and beat the coat to remove the dirt.

     Jamie turned and looked around the room.  There was a large fireplace freshly laid with wood, a bright blaze quickly warming the room. Above the fireplace, a painting of voluptuous women in various stages of undress along with several nude cherubs reminded him where he was.

     Jamie shook his head with wry amusement.  He’d spent enough time at the French brothels in Paris with Charles that this really was nothing new.  Hours in the company of that inane fop whose stubbornness caused the catastrophe they hadn’t been able to stop.  He paused, putting his hand on the mantle piece as if to steady himself.  _Claire_. Christ, would these memories never fade?

     The room obviously had been decorated by a woman’s hand. Tables were covered with cloths, the colors rich.  Madame Jeanne kept a refined establishment, no matter how coarse her chosen occupation. There was a bed, neatly made, obviously unrumpled. Thankfully that meant that they’d put on fresh sheets.  He’d slept in many a flea-infested hotel, so he appreciated the care taken to make the space more welcoming.

     A faint knock on the door brought his attention back. “Some supper, sir,” said the old woman, bobbing her gray head.

     “Thank you, Pauline,” Jamie managed to say, pulling a coin from his pocket to hand to her.

     Her cheeks colored. “Oh, ye dinna need to pay me, sir,” she said, waving the gratuity away with her wrinkled hands. “Ye are to go into business wi’ the Madame, and we are to treat ye well.”

     “Be that as it may, has the Madame outlawed my reciprocal kindness? May I not treat ye well at the same time?” Jamie asked.  

     Her expression softened, and for the first time she seemed to pause and truly look at him with a faint expression of recognition brightening her eyes.  “ _A Dhia_ , lad, my son Roy was such a one as you are.  The kindest heart he had, and tall like you, too.”

     Jamie’s brow furrowed. “Now, ye dinna have an Edinburgh accent, Mistress Pauline.  Am I right in thinking you might be from the Highlands?”

     She colored again, cocking her head and looking up at his red hair wistfully.  “Aye, lad.  But I lost my son and my husband at Culloden, and I had to move to Edinburgh to be wi’ my sister’s family.”

     Jamie sighed and reached his hand out to her.  “I was at Culloden as well, Pauline, where many brave men were lost.  I am very sorry.”

     The woman smiled as she shook her head. “Many things were lost at Culloden,” she answered.  “I can see in your eyes you lost much as well.”

     He nodded, his mind filled with memories of Claire at the stones, making love to her one final time with his son in her womb.  Yes, many things had been lost that day… Could it truly have been eighteen years ago?

     He realized eventually that Pauline was twisting her apron in her hands while looking at him hesitantly. He nodded to her.  “Thank you truly, Pauline.”  She bobbed a quick curtsy and then left him with the tray on the table.

     One of the pots was a steaming tureen.  When he lifted the lid, he smiled at the sight and smell of cock-a-leekie soup. If Madame Jeanne was a Frenchwoman, at least her cook was a good Scotswoman.  This felt a good deal like home.

     Brown bread, a bannock, and even a lump of white butter along with a gooey substance that had orange shreds in it rounded out the meal.  The jam was sweet and tangy, and delicious spread on the bread with butter and eaten between bites of soup.

     By the time he’d finished his repast, Jamie had decided this would be a good place for them to stay. Warm food, a clean bed, and a female head of the establishment who wasn’t a nosy busybody.  He felt fortunate indeed.

     With that in mind, Jamie took his valise and unpacked it into the chest of drawers.  He had few enough items of clothing.  A few jackets and pairs of breeks, several long sarks, neckerchiefs, dark stockings.  He recognized Marsali’s even stitches as he put one pair away.

     At the bottom of the valise was a well-worn pouch, which Jamie drew out with tenderness.  Without a kilt to wear, a sporran looked out of place indeed.  He missed it, though, the way wearing a sporran often meant he had exactly what he needed with him.  A small hank of thread, a needle, a button.  He had once had his mother’s pearls in it.  He paused, closing his eyes.   _Again_.  Why did Claire still fill his thoughts?

     He shook his head as if that could shake away the memories, and pulled a few items from the sporran. There was a small statue of St. Anthony and two candles which he set together with his gnawed-upon rosary on a small table by the bed.  He lit the tapers with an ember that had shot out onto the hearth and bowed his head in a brief prayer, remembering Willie.  When John had last written, he had said they were having Willie sit for portraits, and that if he could he would send Jamie a miniature.

     Thinking of John, Jamie reached back into his valise and pulled out the wooden rectangular box—the chess set John had gifted him with on his departure from Helwater. They were not likely to play any time soon, but he had taught Fergus strategy years before, and if they had spare time of an evening, perhaps they could play—or even take on some of the men from below the stairs.  

     It would be a way to increase the funds he could spend on his business.  As for what he and Fergus could possibly do, he had no inkling what line of work being a farmer, cattle thief, outlaw, woodsman, prisoner, and groom would have prepared him for.  However, Fergus had assured him there were indeed many options.

     He turned back to the sporran, sweeping his fingers through the empty innards of the bag, his fingers eventually resting upon a piece of cold metal.  He gripped it between the tips of two fingers and drew it out.

     The blacksmith had done a fine job of reconnecting the bow and blade, though the shortness had made Jenny laugh and make a coarse joke about Claire making him less of a man.  

     Jamie held it in his hand as he retreated to the bed, stretching his sore, tired legs out in front of him and gazing at the key as if seeing beyond it to the portion that was missing.  

     Would she have taken off his ring in her time?  Would HE have made her take it off?  

     Jamie had never questioned the gold band Claire wore on her left hand.  Her body and soul was his—what was a piece of jewelry? However, it was possible that HE would care.  She was carrying another man’s baby—perhaps the added insult of the ring would be too much for the man.  Was he a jealous person?

     Suddenly Jamie was filled with a hatred and resentment that he rarely let flare to the surface.  That man had no right to be jealous.  Jamie had sent her back—he had saved her life and that of their child.  He had sent her back to share His bed, to raise their son with Him.  But how would He—that wretched descendent of Jack Randall—act toward a bastard son?  Jamie cringed at the word.  He had to believe it was well.  Had to believe that he was treating both of them well.  

     Jamie’s forehead wrinkled as he considered—Brian would be a young man now, not a child, a lad anymore. Eighteen.  Claire had said that was an age of significance in her time.  Had he lived this long?

     He bowed in front of the candle again.  _“That it may be well with her… her and the child.”_


	3. The Purchase

> _Ma Petite Joanie—  
> _
> 
> _Milord gave me the letter from you. What fine, neat penmanship you have! I sadly did not have time for such things as a lad. I was far more busy learning to pick pockets. Do not ask your Maman what that means, I pray you, if you wish for me to be welcome even in the **stables** at Hogmanay, as a pickpocket is like a pirate of the streets, and Mistress Laoghaire already dislikes me greatly._
> 
> _You will forgive me for my bad example, for I was young and knew no better. However, you should also know I was **excellent** at it._
> 
> _Today I take Milord about Edinburgh to show him the businesses we may consider. I believe I should like to own an inn, but as your father is a terrible cook and worse housekeeper, I fear that dream is not to be._
> 
> _Bonnes pensées à vous,_
> 
> _Fergus_

     By the fourth establishment, Fergus was beginning to droop. He had begun the day with such enthusiasm, Jamie thought. However, several of the sellers had gotten greedy looks in their eyes as they saw the young man was now joined by a gentleman of such caliber as Jamie, and suddenly the bakery that was to cost a reasonable number of pounds was marked up to twice that sum.

     The haberdashery looked promising, but while Fergus could pass as a tailor, Jamie didn’t have the delicate manners and refined way of speaking that would help them pull off that particular false front. Having to bring in a seamstress or tailor would mean more eyes on them, more lies to fabricate and keep straight. The fewer employees needed, the better.

     And now the fog which had turned to a fine mist had transformed into a persistent drizzle, making Fergus’s dark curls droop along with his spirits.

     “Milord,” the young man sighed, stopping under an overhang, “Perhaps we should consider ourselves finished for the day.”

     “Have you grown soft so swiftly?” Jamie teased, clapping Fergus on the shoulder with a grin. “Only a few months in the city and I can already outpace you with such ease? And ye still a lad of nine-and-twenty?”

     Fergus frowned and pressed his lips together into a thin line. Jamie could see him respond to the challenge.

     “Well, just down this close there is one more establishment I thought we might see…” Fergus offered, gesturing down the alleyway that led under an arch.

     Jamie raised his eyebrows at the dark lane, but followed Fergus nonetheless.

     The building was dark brown and nondescript, a steep stairway leading up to a balcony and a solid door. The steps were rickety, but as Jamie looked down he could see it was nothing a few nails and some hammering couldn’t remedy.

     “What is this place?” he asked Fergus, peering through the dusty window next to the door.

     “A printshop,” Fergus answered. “In my explorations I noted that they had deliveries coming to them often, carrying things such as barrels of ink, crates of paper, or rolls of leather for book binding.”

     “Is there no current owner?” Jamie asked. “I havena ever worked in a print shop. I would need some training.”

     “Oh, aye,” Fergus answered, the Scots phrase in his French accent making Jamie smile affectionately at him. “Master Gerhardt is the owner. He is old and feeble, so he must rarely come upstairs. Perhaps we should knock on the back door.”

     Fergus led Jamie around to the small door in the back of the building, and after several raps of increasing volume, shuffling steps announced the approach of the owner, who smiled at the sight of Fergus and reached his hand out to Jamie in greeting. His grip was remarkably firm for a man as thin and hunched with age as he was, but there was both intelligence and humor in his clear blue eyes.

     “ _Lob Gott im Himmel_ ,” he said. At the confused expression on Fergus’s face, he translated himself in a thick accent. “Praise Got in heafen,” he said.

     Jamie looked at him curiously. “You are Prussian?” he asked, recognition passing over his features.

     “ _Ja_ ,” the gentleman answered smilingly, “Following in the footsteps of Johannes Gutenberg and others of my kinsmen by owning a printing press.”

     “But why… praise  _God_?” Jamie asked.

     “Och, I dreamed a man would come buy my shop. A man with hair of flames.” Herr Gerhardt shrugged as if he said nothing shocking, his face shining in beatific calm as he ushered the two men inside. Thus it was that Fergus and Jamie had not stepped three feet inside the building before Jamie had already determined that they had found their business.

     The printshop smelled like knowledge, Jamie decided. So many years of his life he had been without the written word. In Ardsmuir, a book was unheard of, though John had let him read occasionally in his offices after they finished a meal or bored of chess.

     He ran his fingers along the worn leather spines of several books on a dusty shelf, thinking as he did of their simple shelf back at Balriggan.

_“Who will read to us tonight, da?” Joanie had asked, her lower lip quivering as he had bid them farewell the morning he left._

_“I will,” Marsali had said bravely, jutting out her chin. “I need to practice. And you will read as well, Joanie. We dinna wish to be uneducated.”_

     But it hadn’t just been the books he would miss, Jamie thought, a space on his chest right under his chin suddenly feeling cold and empty. He already missed those moments with his girls. Damn Black Jack Randall, damn Hugh MacKenzie, damn Jenny for wheedling and begging him to marry, damn Laoghaire for being nothing like her younger self, and damn Claire too, for leaving him.  _No, he didn’t mean that._  He shook his head, disgusted with himself, listening again as the white-haired gentleman told them about his business.

     Herr Gerhardt had owned the press on Carfax Close for many years. His wife had died and his sons moved away and now it was just him in the shop. At his age he had become too weak to work the press, but he was happy to teach Fergus and Jamie the ins and outs of the business. From what Jamie could tell, the printer had assumed they were going to buy the shop even before they committed to anything, giving them a tour of the printshop as if they already owned it; showing Jamie the trays of metal letters with the forceps to load them into the printing frames, spelling backward from right to left so the pages would print correctly.  As Herr Gerhardt spoke, Jamie took detailed notes on a scrap piece of paper.

     Gerhardt demonstrated how to mix the turpentine, oil and soda ash as pigment to make the ink, how to rub the ink smoothly onto the text and then pull the lever of the press firmly once the paper was trapped between the frisket and tympan.  He showed how to carefully remove the paper from the form, peeling it away from the metal printing frame so as not to smear the letters, and how to hang the paper to dry along with the countless others already in the shop.

     Finally Jamie brought out his bag of gold coins, and with little fanfare, Herr Gerhardt agreed on a price.

     “I will plan to move in a week,” he said. “I have enough for a journey back to my Motherland. I wish to see those familiar green hills before I die.”

     Fergus had wandered upstairs to inspect the office and store area, when Herr Gerhardt turned to Jamie with a serious expression on his face.

     “You are Catholic,  _ja_?” he asked, peering thoughtfully into his eyes. Jamie held back, unsure what the elderly gentleman intended. “It is simply… my patrons… some of them will agree with you. Some of them will not. Do you believe, Herr Malcolm, in the free press?”

     Again, Jamie remained silent, his mind whirling with how he should respond. He truly felt this was a man he could trust, but the Crown had ears everywhere, it seemed.

     Finally he squared his shoulders. “Aye, Herr Gerhardt, I believe in freedom. I believe I can respect my fellow man without having to agree wi’ them.”

     “So I can trust you with my shop?” The blue eyes seemed to shine brighter as Jamie had spoken.

     “Aye,” Jamie responded, clasping the frail hand in both of his own. “Your shop will be in good hands.”

 

     As Jamie and Fergus retreated down Carfax Close, the younger turned to the older.

     “So you have decided already, Milord?”

     “Aye,” Jamie responded. “It appears we will not have to resort to piracy or pickpocketing, but from Master Gerhardt’s threadbare clothing, it is obvious a printer is not able to create much wealth; we need to move quickly to establish ourselves as importers of spirits. Shall we haste to France and meet with Jared?”

     Fergus nodded, as the two strode down the streets of Edinburgh towards the comfort of Madame Jeanne’s hospitality… and Pauline’s cooking.


	4. The Eavesdropper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie can't help what he overhears in the brothel... but all it does is remind him of Claire.

> _Lord John Grey—_
> 
> _The last I sent Communication to you, it was to Acquaint you with my new Marriage and Address at Balriggan.  Although I made many Fine memories with my two Step Daughters, Joanie and Marsali, my Marriage was none so happy as your Own.  Even though I do not Claim the same Predilictions as Yourself, there was no Satisfaction emotional or physical to be found with my Bride.  Some hurt was Done to her in the past which made her Incapable of Love._
> 
> _I am currently living in a Brothel owned by one Mme Jeanne Grand---.  It is not the finest of accomodations, but as I have slept on the stone floor of Ardsmuir as well as an Apartment above a Stable which Fair Reeked with odors that must have emanated from the fiery Pits of Hell, this is a Fine choice for lodging._
> 
> _As well, my accommodations provide me the Opportunity of walking past many Strongly Scented young ladies, many of Which seem Quite Determined to gain my favor or at least my Attention.  It is as if they see my Person and determine to Lose one or Two essential Articles of Clothing before I pass them.  I feel I have been Successful in feigning a Lack of interest, for I believe they Begin to Think I am of the Same Persuasion as Yourself._
> 
> _You would Never believe who I Stumbled upon purely by accident this Eve.  Two old friends from long ago, both of whom you may recall.  Well, I must retire.  I am weary and half-drunk from drinking the health of the two.  I may write More of them on the Morrow, or I may simply Post the insignificant Amount I have currently written._
> 
> _Your long-time Friend,_
> 
> _James Fraser (though you must address correspondence here to Alexander Malcolm)_

 

     “Enough of this,” the female voice demanded.  “Stop reading and make love to me now, damn ye.”

      “Ye shall no’ order me aroond,” retorted the male voice in an only-playfully-irritated voice. “Or I shall take ye over my knee and give your wee ass the skelping ye deserve.”

     Jamie’s heart had started pounding at the entry of voices into the room next to his.  The Madame had assured him the garret rooms were not used for her business.  They were only rented as hotel rooms or boarding room. She had  requested his discretion without completely explaining why, but he had taken her to mean that married men often met their mistresses here.

     He could nearly hear the pout in the girl’s voice. “I ken ye are old enough to be my father, but I’m too old to be skelpt.”

      “Are ye, now?” The male voice was coming closer. “Then you’ll obey me, and stop ordering me to do as ye demand.”

     Jamie held his breath, quiet enough to hear her faint giggle and teasing sing-song as she quietly chanted, “Make love to me **_now_**.”

      “Well then,” said the voice.  “Now ye’ve gone and done it…”

     The giggles and teasing comments moved closer to and farther away from him as if the speakers were dashing around the room, making Jamie wish the walls were thicker.  He should not be eavesdropping on such a moment.  But it put him in mind of another night, so many years ago.

 

     She had wronged the men.  She had disobeyed his orders  and endangered their lives.  And nearly destroyed his heart,  shattered him into a thousand pieces...

     Oh,  Christ,  that moment when she'd screamed.  It was only overshadowed by the instant he threw open the window and his eyes registered the scene in front of him.  His wife,  corset torn open, bent over a desk,  her skirts thrown up,  and that devil,  that conscience-less beast behind her with a knife to her throat.

     That he hadn’t dropped dead from the terror he felt was miracle enough… that he was able to bluff his way into the room and save Claire had been enough to have him fiercely thanking the Virgin Mother as they thrashed through the water,  pulled themselves ashore, and awaited the others, clinging to each other silently in the cold darkness.

     It was for them,  the others—Angus and Rupert and Murtagh and Willie—that he was forced to discipline his wife.

     He sensed it first from the way the men acted as if she was invisible, the way they subtly made their displeasure known by turning their backs on her  even as they joked and boasted about their exploits.   Then he kent for certain that the men were angry at her when Murtagh urged him to do his duty.

     His da had skelpt his ma a time or two that Jamie could remember.  Ellen Caitriona MacKenzie Fraser had a fierce tongue that matched her red hair. At times when Brian MacDubh Fraser told her to hush and she wouldna, when she jutted out her chin and stood her ground, Jamie had seen his da’s face take on a weariness and his jaw stiffen. Brian was generally a gentle man, but Jamie had seen him remove his belt and take Ellen to the back room, his father’s hand gripping tight around Ellen’s upper arm.

     Next door, the man had caught the girl.  The movement had slowed and the two had quieted, but he could still hear rustling.  _A Dhia! Were the walls truly so thin that he could hear the sound of clothing being removed?_

     Jamie had been confused for only a moment that night long ago, and then he kent what to do.  He must discipline her; he would give Claire a beating.  Enough that the men would forgive her; enough that she would listen to his orders the next time; enough that she would never again question his authority as her husband and master. 

     Thoughts of her quivering lower lip consumed his mind as he climbed the stairs to their room—of that adorable tremble she would get in her chin when she was teary—and those thoughts had made him hesitate at the door.  What if she began to cry straight away?  What if she fell on his chest in tears and begged for his mercy and forgiveness?  Would he be strong enough to follow through?

     Jamie had steeled his jaw as he entered the room.  That was why he’d had to turn his back on her as he spoke to her.  He kent he couldn’t look at Claire, her beautiful eyes filling with tears, couldn’t let himself be tempted by those tantalizing feminine curves resting on their bed and still do what was needed. 

     They hadn’t shared a real bed since their two-night honeymoon.  After that they’d slept rough on the road, with the men in earshot.  They’d slipped away when they could, when his aching bollocks couldn’t take another moment without having her, but then there’d been the two deserters... and Horrocks… and Fort William. He’d been dying to bed her since dawn, riding with her body so close to him, her back against his chest… her round arse between his thighs… he had sighed.  He must stop these thoughts or he’d never be able to go through with the beating.

     As he had removed his belt while facing away from her, he had just wanted to get the punishment over with so he could share a bed with Claire again, feel her smooth skin against his, stroke her body until she rose to him, and then take her, proving to her and to himself to whom she belonged.

He’d been a fool to think a woman’s heart was so simple.

      “Ouch!” came a feminine squeal from next door.

      “I havena even touched ye yet,” the deep male voice responded.

      “Be gentle,” the woman’s voice came back, lilting, musical.  Obviously, there was no danger next door as she seemed just as engaged as he.

     _God, he’d been such a fool._  He should have known Claire would not take punishment lying down.  He’d not been attracted to her for being demure.  She was fierce and independent, and when he confronted her there were no tears, no heartfelt apologies.  She was sorry, yes, but she didn’t agree that a beating was in order. 

     Oddly enough, his heart would have relented if she’d cried.  But her rebellious response, her aggression toward him— _damn, had she really thrown crockery at his head?_ —lit a spark of stubborn determination in him as well.  There would be no relenting once he’d squared his jaw.

     And Jamie had won--at least he’d thought so that night.  But Claire had glared at him so fiercely when he moved to prepare for bed that he’d slept on the floor on the same rug where he’d just held her firmly with his knee in the center of her back, finishing what he’d begun.

     He had realized only after the skelping that perhaps she wouldna want him in her bed when he had hurt her so.  He could have taken her with desperate passion, as stirred as he had felt, but he also recognized the look of anger and scorn in her eyes, and that quickly dampened his desire.

     He had told her once that she need not be scairt when he was around, and that night he had determined that he would not use her ill. But Christ, how he wanted her.

     Next door there were two sharp slaps and short cries, but quickly the sounds changed—to other, quite recognizable sounds, little murmurs and passionate cries and groans. 

     Suddenly, Jamie couldn’t stay in his garret room another second.  He couldn’t be thinking like this, couldn’t be clinging to these memories of a love that was long gone, of a passion that he would never experience again.  He needed to get out of the brothel.

     He was about to knock on Fergus’s door to invite him to go to World’s End, but heard a peal of feminine laughter from within the room.

     Shaking his head with a wry smile, Jamie began the journey down the stairs.

 

      “A pint of whisky,” Jamie responded to the young barmaid who paused at his table, a tray of empty pewter mugs propped up on her ample hip.  With a wink and a nod, she bustled off to the bar, returning in moments with a glass of the amber liquid.

     She had loved whisky, his Claire had, but it had been the Rhenish that really got her tipsy. He gazed down at the gold swirling in his cup, but shook himself out of his foolish reverie in time to hear an interchange at the table behind him.

      “No, ye wee _Èireannach_ fool, we canna spend our last coin on more whisky.  We need food for tomorrow.”

      “Well now, doesna the good book say dinna worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself?” The Irish accent was obvious in the response and Jamie smiled as the Irishman finished quoting his Bible text.

      “Using the words of the holy book against me, now, are ye?” the Scot responded belligerently.

     Jamie leaned back in his seat, sipping the whisky. This felt like home, strangely enough.  No, not like home… like Ardsmuir, listening to Lesley and Hayes incessantly arguing in the cell.

      “You ken that he used that very verse to get us to stop our fashin’ when they shipped us off.  All of us heading off to Australia and the Colonies, and him telling us that we shouldna worry.”

     Jamie sat up straighter.  It couldn’t be.  Not here, in Edinburgh.  Not _both_ of them.

      “But I dinna think you said it all,” the Scot said. “There was another part, I’m certain.”

      “No, you’re _wrong_.  The saying was just that.  ‘Dinna worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself’!”

     His back still turned to them, Jamie spoke out in a loud baritone, finishing the phrase. “I believe ye mean to add, ‘ _Each day has enough trouble of its own_.’”

     There was a sudden silence behind him, and then two voices spoke in shocked unison.

      “ ** _MacDubh_**?”


	5. The Smugglers

> _Dear Cousin Jared --_
> 
>     _It has been Some Years since last you left your wine business in Paris in my Charge.  Before the Rising, before the White Rose had to go into hiding, back when my life was still graced by the Presence of my Beautiful wife Claire._
> 
>     _I have fond memories of those days in your gracious house in France, of the honest work as a wine Seller… of playing chess with the minister of finance… Of the Bouquet of a thousand different Spirits..._
> 
>     _I now find myself desirous of doing Business with you again, and hope that you will Welcome your nephew along with my men (who can sleep in the stables, should the Smell of Fish cling to their persons) a Fortnight hence._
> 
>      _That said, with the rough crossing of the Channel this time of year, do not expect me to smell as fresh as a Sachet of Spikenard when I first arrive.  You may wish to send me to the Stables as well, to be doused thoroughly with Water before I am admitted to your Drawing Room._
> 
>       _My intent is to purchase Wine and Spirits to import to Scotland.  I do not expect the Bonds of Kinship to exert unseemly Influence upon your Prices, but I do hope that our first Purchase can be at a cost that will allow me to build up capital for future Business._  

> _Your affectionate Cousin,_
> 
> _James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser_

  
  


“MacDubh,” said Hayes, his brows furrowing as he watched a man with a cask of wine walking down the gangplank.  “Why do ye Scots feel the need to smuggle when spirits can be walked freely on and off of a ship?”

Jamie smiled down at the shorter man--fair skinned, with hair the color of a gently ripening apple.  “For the same reason the Irish smuggle. And the English. Because excise taxes make it impossible for the common working man to buy any wine or whisky worth drinkin’!”

“But I still dinna understand,” Hayes objected loudly.

“Hush yer gaping gob,” Lesley scolded affectionately, and Hayes quieted his voice for his next questions.  

“So we go to France, and we get whisky and wine.  And we come back by boat. Do we not then get taxed when we dock here in Edinburgh?”  

Jamie smiled patiently. “We sail as far as Eyemouth, not Edinburgh, for I have an acquaintance there wi’ a smaller vessel.  He will help us transfer our goods to his ship, from whence we sail on to Dunbar, moving our goods into casks and crates labelled as supplies for the print shop as we travel.  We put in there and then journey on to Edinburgh by cart and horse as legitimate buyers of paper and books and ink. We unload our printing goods at the print shop, and then under cover of darkness the remaining supplies to the cellars at Madame Jeanne’s.”

Fergus gravely scratched his chin with the tip of his hook.  “But, Milord—what if we are found out?”

Jamie furrowed his brow, glancing around the docks where hawk-eyed excise men stood about, attempting to do just that.  Then he smiled at his foster son.

“Och aye, but that's where your discovery of Madame Jeanne is a tremendous gift to us.  The madame has acquainted me with the names and faces of several excise men who are willing to look the other way.” 

Hayes stared at him wide-eyed.  “Why would they do that, MacDubh?”

Lesley elbowed him in the side. “Coin, of course, ye wee dolt.”

“Oh,  coin …..” Hayes said, a look of understanding dawning on his moon face.

“Come along, men,” Jamie said with resignation, his face already taking on the faint green pallor of nausea. “From here we are on to France.”

Despite his bravado, Jamie Fraser knew it was not as simple a matter as he made it seem. There were too many moving parts, too many ways their journey could go wrong.  And yet he knew from his years of leading men at Ardsmuir that he must remain outwardly calm, no matter the inner turmoil he was facing. His men would respond to what they saw, and if he was nervous they would be ten times more so--and nervousness would set the excise men upon them more than any other tell. So shoulders back, head high, he walked confidently up the dock to the waiting sloop that would take them to France.

 

It was every bit as torturous as Jamie had remembered: the tossing of the ocean, the rolling movement of the waves. He felt weak and nauseated, and he could not hold down a bit of food.  He curled miserably up in a hammock in the crewmen’s quarters while the others did what they could to help aboard the ship.

They were traveling to France, heading to meet with Jared, setting off on a venture to sell spirits.  How could his thoughts not go to that day some twenty years’ previous when he and Claire had set out across the same sea? When she had told him that she was with child, pregnant with their daughter Faith…

 

He had been so broken, still physically weakened by Randall's torture tactics, his hand stiff and aching at any accidental movement.

But his heart and mind were even more broken--broken to the point that he still lacked the faith that he would ever recover.

Murtagh had talked him out of taking his own life.  Certainly as a Catholic Jamie had known that self-murder was a mortal sin, but he had already felt dead inside--and the blessed bliss of eternal sleep was the only way he could imagine feeling at peace again.

_I couldna even stand to have a person close behind me_ , he murmured to himself, recalling that horrible sense of violation and fear that had clung to him like a shadow in the months after the events in Wentworth prison.  In the cramped quarters of the lower decks on the ship to France, a person couldn’t keep from others running into them, especially when squeezing by each other in the narrow passageways. He would cringe when the foul-mouthed seamen would barrel into him, drunk and belligerent.

And his troubled response to touch had Claire keeping her distance too, though he could read her glass face like a book.  She was afraid for him, afraid of him, and yet she longed for him. In their berth at night he would hear her sigh and knew she wanted him, wanted the warmth of his body, wanted the comfort of his touch.  But he couldn’t give her what she needed.

One day when they had been becalmed for a second day in a row, Jamie was grateful.  Despite the lack of progress toward Paris, he was grateful for the utterly still ocean, for rest for his weary stomach.  With his constantly upset wame, he had managed to run out of clean shirts, and Claire had firmly ordered him up to the main deck to draw buckets of salty wash water so that she could scrub their clothes clean.

“I’m tired of having nothing to do,” she had said. “Let me take care of you.”

When Jamie returned to the room, he found his wife stripped down to her shift standing in front of a large washtub that looked remarkably like a cooking pot.  He wondered what she’d had to do to get the cook to let her use it. 

She had tied up the sides of her skirt and rolled up her sleeves, her ivory arms exposed.  Her hair was tied up as well, tendrils of curling brown wisping out of the knot at the top of her head.  She looked thinner, but who could eat on a ship, anyway.

Once she bolted the door, she had gestured toward his shirt.  “Take it off,” she had ordered.

He had avoided nakedness as well since that day. But he didn't defy her, pulling his shirt off over his head and handing it over. 

Their berth was hot. There was no porthole, and Claire had heated the first batch of water he brought down so that the room filled with moist, hot air. He felt lightheaded, and sat down on a bunk to watch her.

As she bent over the tub, thrusting her arms deep into the water, she had started to hum.  It pleased her to work--he could tell. She worked with efficiency but determination, agitating the white shirts and soap with single-minded focus. 

The neck of her shift gaped when she bent over, and he could see the curve of her breasts, the darker shadow between them, the rosy hue of her nipples.  He could swear they were already darker and her breasts larger, her body filling with his child, her breasts preparing to feed his bairn. He felt a slight stirring as he watched, and he tried to dwell in the sensation of desire for a moment.

He loved her,  Christ he loved her.  But Claire was all that was beautiful and holy in his world, sanctified by marriage and blessed by the church, their joining a sacrament.

What he had done with Jack Randall haunted him--for it had not just been done  to him--and he could not touch her with his hands; could not join with her with his body. Not when he had been used… Not when that most sacred part of him had been ravaged.

Jamie rolled over in the hammock in an awkward thrashing motion. Why was he remembering these painful things? He rubbed his hand over his face.

Claire… Oh, yes, Claire.

He had watched her--wanting her, yet unable to express that desire, incapable of reaching for her--and then she had looked up. 

“Our child grows within you,” he had said, awestruck. 

“He does,” she agreed. And then as if reading his mind, she reached to the neck of her shift and untied the string.  She watched him as she drew the thin fabric off over her shoulders, exposing the full roundness of her breasts, the jut of her ribs under her flesh, and then the subtle, beautiful curve of her belly.

He had smiled then. He had forgotten Randall, forgotten Wentworth, forgotten his scars and shame and pain in that moment.  And he reached toward his child--his son or daughter now growing within Claire's womb.

He stroked the smooth soft skin of her abdomen, closed his eyes, holding his breath as if in silence he might be able to feel the child within her. He kissed her body, this welcoming home for the fruit of their union. He suckled her, and found himself oddly comforted as she held his head against herself, as she stroked her fingers through his hair. 

He could not enter her; no, he would not taint their union with those horrific memories still fresh in his mind.

But he could tell from the way she pressed herself toward him, the subtle opening of her legs, that she needed his touch. 

He had reached his hand between her legs and found his way to that silken warmth, that place that had always welcomed him. She had gasped, a lovely wee breathy sigh that made him harder without a single touch.

He was hard  now , by God.  He wished he didn't respond to memory like this.  And yet to feel… This was a gift. To be able to still feel desire for her when he hadn't seen her in 18 years… to recall her touch as if she were with him now... to remember the way she writhed and moaned, her eyes closed. And then to feel her sweaty cheek rest on his head as she shuddered and gasped... And wept.

_Thank_ _you_ , she had whispered. 

He glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to the room. He wished he could touch her again, but he did the next best thing.

And then he prayed for her.

_That she may be safe… She and the child._

 


End file.
